


Slow Down

by bdiddy150 (dismalspacenoodle)



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (Alex thinks something's wrong with it because he doesn't know what ace/aro is), (and society taught us that U Gotta Have The Love), (but society is WRONG), (cake is cooler I love cake), Alex is Asexual, Alexander Hamilton is Asexual, Alexander Has Issues, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aromantic Alexander, Asexual Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sex, John is a Saint, M/M, Misunderstandings, Self-Esteem Issues, Unreliable Narrator, not really a big thing its just one sentence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:52:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8367862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismalspacenoodle/pseuds/bdiddy150
Summary: And Alex had papers and papers and papers and little curls of crossed t’s and holes from i’s dotted too hard and y’s that flicked off into other letters and c’s and e’s that became one letter and words flipped the wrong way and tears blurring ink that hadn’t quite dried right and they piled up, covering chairs and crumpled under clothes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> please read the tags :) the "self harm" is one line and isn't really self harm, just a note about scars that could be taken any way because a kid like Alex would have a lot of scars, but warning anyways  
> Also I was rereading this and realized that there's a thing that kinda makes it seem like being ace/aro or not loving someone is wrong and I would like to say this is entirely inaccurate; my friends used to call me a sociopath or a robot a lot (and when I told one of my friends that I thought I was ace, they flat out told me I just wasn't trying hard enough... whatever) because I didn't "have crushes" and I got asked out a lot and always said no and so , uhm , I felt really really bad about it and actually went to therapy because i (and my mother) thought I was emotionally disconnected or smth and then I was just like fuck it.  
> BUT ANYWAYS you can't control who you love, even if it's no one at all or three people at once or the same gender or the opposite gender. :)

His mother was dying.

His mother was dead.

His mother’s landlord told him, one day, that if he didn’t step up and _do his job_ he would have to fire him. He couldn’t have a useless staff member, no matter what he owed their mothers.

 And so Alex gritted his teeth and promised to do better.

Most days, it wasn’t so bad.

But he just couldn’t be _useless_. He would do better.

John looked at him, confused, worried, obviously not understanding, and Alex felt like someone was pulling at his intestines, making him both nauseated and guilt-ridden. He would do better.

“Sorry,” he muttered. _Sorry for being a failure, for missing the cues, for not knowing if you still want me here, for needing the attention, for_ apologizing _so god damn much, for fading in and out of your life, for being the worst friend, for sticking around and making you awkwardly insist I’m still you’re friend when you just wish I would leave, for not knowing how to leave, for the journal under my bed with all the reasons I’m wrong, for the scars lining my legs and the pills in my drawers and the tears and the mood swings, for my laugh, for my emotional failure, for all of this._ “I’m sorry.”

_ For all the ways I’ve let Mamma down. _

He had papers and papers, strewn across his bedroom and pinned onto the wall, ink stains along the sleeves of every single one of his shirts and calluses from the pens. Words flying from his lips, from his hands, from his heart and mind, endless words that _no one wanted to hear_ but he wanted to _scream_ , wanted to throw them onto the sides of buildings in extra-large neon lights, words shouting who he was except _he didn’t know who he was_ , besides someone no one wanted around.

He wanted to love John, he really did, but he _couldn’t_ , and _God_ there was something so, so wrong with him but he would keep trying even though, really, John probably didn’t love him, didn’t even want him around, just didn’t know how to break it off with someone who talked so much and still managed to lock his heart up in a box and then melt the key down into tiny shards that embedded themselves in the softest parts, causing himself constant _but well deserved_ pain.

But he would do better.

But friendship, family, love and relationships were just a million times of slipping up and forgetting everything is temporary _except the words you write and the lines carved into your skin_ and then unofficial heartbreak.

And Alex had papers and papers and papers and little curls of crossed t’s and holes from i’s dotted too hard and y’s that flicked off into other letters and c’s and e’s that became one letter and words flipped the wrong way and tears blurring ink that hadn’t quite dried right and they piled up, covering chairs and crumpled under clothes.

He learned, when he was young, how to write backwards, upside down, inside out, because he was never a _doodler_ , he was a writer, and sometimes the teachers got concerned, sent letters home to his “legal guardians”, saying that maybe he should see a therapist or be moved up a grade, that his writing was too advanced or too sad, and he knew they couldn’t tell them there was something wrong with what he was writing if they couldn’t _read it_ , and that way they all just thought he was _stupid, stupid, stupid_ _Alexander_. And then they told him they couldn’t place him if he kept doing “stupid shit like this”, he couldn’t fight with his “parents”, even though he wasn’t his fault, even though his mamma told him that he shouldn’t let anyone stop him from doing what he set out to do.

He ran away when he was seventeen, tried to get away, and he still wouldn’t talk about that year.

He got back, graduated high school at the near-top of his class, scored a scholarship to the college of his dreams and told himself he could put it all behind him.

He met four kids there, Burr, Mulligan, Call-Me-Lafayette, _Laurens_ , and promised them he would make them proud, stick with them, telling them he’d never had a group of friends before because he’d never had _friends_ before but he knew. He knew they would tire of him, the same way his families had, his friends had.

But he would do better.

And he had documents piled onto his laptop, files titled under hasty misnomers and printed pages stuffed in between the pages of his textbooks, pencil markings all over them and pen scratches on his desk, ink blots on his sheets from one too many broken pens and stacks of filled-in notebooks shoved under his bed.

And Laurens hinted at liking it rough and so Alex pretended he liked it rough, too, anything to not be _alone_ again. Let him do whatever he wanted, made sure Laurens thought he liked it because once he forgot to and Laurens never, ever did that again and said over and over _I will never do anything you don’t like, Alex_ , and Alex _knew_ that Laurens was telling the truth and also knew that if Laurens couldn’t get what he wanted from Alex, he’d go elsewhere and leave Alex behind and Alex didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be left behind again.

But he just couldn’t love Laurens, never loved the girls and guys who told him, quietly, behind bleachers and over text messages and over sweaty pillows that they loved him, but he ever told _them_ he loved them. He told Laurens he loved him.

It was as close to love that he had ever been, and wasn’t that enough? Maybe he couldn’t stand the sex, the heated bodies thrashing against each other, the horrible pain that faded into mild discomfort after years of partners he had manage to put on a good enough show for. Laurens asked him if he enjoyed it. Alex always said yes. Maybe it wasn’t convincing enough, maybe he wasn’t good enough for Laurens to stay?

He would do better.

He broke down, one day, after he and Laurens had fucked—and Alex _hated_ that word, because it sounded dirty and rough and made him feel sick and used—broken down while Laurens was taking a shower, cleaning himself off. Alex couldn’t pretend anymore.

Laurens found him curled up on the bed, sobbing and clawing at his wrist and trying not to make any noises. He immediately dropped everything, running over to Alex wearing only the sweatpants he had pulled on after the shower (but Alex was still bare, feeling exposed emotionally _and_ physically, now) and begged him to tell him what was wrong and Alex whispered three words, “I can’t anymore.”

Laurens wrapped Alex up in a blanket, sitting him down and pulling him against his chest. He softly pet his hair, holding him until he calmed down enough to speak, and then let him do so. After a moment, Alex did. “I can’t do it,” he whispered.  
“Can’t do what?” Laurens softly asked, concern coloring his voice.  
Alex _knew_ Laurens didn’t actually want to hear it, but he was too tired to stop himself. “I can’t lie anymore,” he said.  
And by some miracle, Laurens’ hand didn’t even stutter, just kept carding itself through his hair. His voice still gentle, he coaxed, “Then don’t.”

Alex didn’t think it would all come pouring out of him like this—the confessions of his love and lack thereof, his hatred of the sex and the terror of being alone—but it _did_ , and Laurens held him through the whole thing, not saying a word or moving an inch except for the relaxing patterns he traced onto Alex’s scalp.  
He didn’t finish so much as exhaust himself, taking a deep breath and ceasing his words with a trembling sigh. After a moment, Laurens, quietly as to not break whatever mood had made Alexander so willing to open up, calmly asked, “Alex?” The other man stilled, then minutely nodded, filled with fear. John smiled softly. “I love you.” But it was a different _I love you_ , one without romantic undertones, one that promised that he wasn’t going to drop Alexander like a used and worn-out t-shirt. It was an _I love you_ that didn’t tell Alex that he owned Lauren’s heart, but that Alex had found his own spot in the other man’s heart, and he’d be hard-pressed to find a way to ruin that.  
And Alex clung to his friend, sobbing, and said “I love you, John,” over and over and over, and he meant it.

And he didn't  _have_ to do better.

Alexander had piles and piles of papers, hand-written and typed alike, thrown about his room and decorating the walls and floor like some sort of bizarre wallpaper-carpet duo, the corners of pages ripped and folded over, color-coded sticky notes placed by John and hearts drawn on every available surface by Lafayette and half-finish stacks of semi-organized clothes that Hercules had tried to salvage from the pens that always seemed to explode in Alexander's pockets on on his floor, notes taped to the door in neat, slanted writing telling him to "fold his damn clothes" and sloppy French with bright green pen and signed with a lopsided heart, flowery cursive telling him that  _it's okay, we love you_. 

_ And maybe, _ Alex thought, _they did._

**Author's Note:**

> I might do a sequel, or write out some scenes hinted at in this (meeting the Squad(TM), college life, The Talk at the end, etc.) but this was, once again, me projecting.  
> I hope the rushed narration style didn't feel wrong, but I did it because that's how Alexander Hamilton is and sorta how anxiety is-- just a big rush of a million things happening-- and I wanted it to all slow down when John finally was presented and Alex talked, you know? Because the thing... and feelings...  
> Please notify me of any errors; I do not have a beta because God hates me and I will love you forever if you point something out.  
> (also i wrote the title to reflect the whole slowing-down-the-narration and then giggled because its the opposite of when Hamilton told Philip to slow down in Blow Us All Away and Anthony plays Philip and John and then i started crying because rip my bois)  
> good night ily all :D  
> AND. ALSO. I tell my friends I love them a lot and I think you do love your closest friends so platonic "I love you"s ftw  
> hmu on tumblr at dismalspacenoodle if y'all have any questions, comments, concerns, (macaroni and cheese donations), or you want to chat about literally anything because i am ALWAYS down to rant about characters or hear drama. I love you all so much!!!!  
> Kudos are gr9 and I feed off of comments. Please do ;)


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